


Late, Late Nights and Early Starts

by hibernate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Insomnia, Late Night Conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26214574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hibernate/pseuds/hibernate
Summary: Sleep is for those with less to do.
Relationships: Leliana/Vivienne (Dragon Age)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30
Collections: Black Emporium 2020





	Late, Late Nights and Early Starts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RipplesOfAqua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RipplesOfAqua/gifts).



There is someone behind her.

It's a cold evening, the spring snow having only just melted into muddy puddles in the days before, and the balcony is especially exposed. The wind picks up and Vivienne cannot suppress a shiver, joints stiff from standing still in the chill too long. There's no sound behind her, but a lifetime of practice has honed her instincts and made such awareness second nature. 

Few people in Skyhold possess such skills of subterfuge. One of them she can spot across the courtyard: a shadow behind a candle burning in the windows above the Herald's Rest. Another: the demon who is not a demon, appearing at will from the shadows or wherever else such creatures dwell, but rarely behind her, rather preferring the hazy angle in the corner of one's eye...

Only one possibility left then. The woman in question slides up beside her with little preamble, face hidden in the shadow of her hood. 

"Sister Nightingale," Vivienne says. "What brings you away from your birds?"

The Spymaster does not seem fazed by her lack of surprise, but then Vivienne did not expect her to. "Chateau d'Lussard 9:34," she replies, looking out over the edge of the balcony.

Below, the courtyard is shrouded in shadows — still, it is not so dark that Vivienne cannot make out the figures below. 

Fools, acting far younger than their years should allow. Cassandra, amused and exasperated by turns, blunted weapon at the ready; the Inquisitor, short and loud, wasting her time with acrobatics rather than actual sparring. 

"Quite the find," Vivienne says, breath a cloud in the cool air.

Glancing to her side, Leliana's eyes are still shadowed by her hood, but the moon illuminates the lower part of her face, revealing her lips twitching into a smirk. "I thought we might share it."

"It's an expensive wine. Should I be concerned that you're attempting to poison me?"

Leliana smiles crookedly, indicating the alcove inside. "I suppose you will have to try it to find out, yes?"

Giving her a long look, Vivienne returns the smile with one of her own, one that is a mask in and of itself. "After you, darling."

Retreating from the balcony at Leliana's heel, Vivienne closes the doors behind them. With a twist of her wrist, she lights the candles around the room, little flames flickering in an excited dance before settling.

In a perfectly quaint — and rather presumptuous — gesture, the bottle of Chateau d'Lussard 9:34 and two glasses stand waiting for them on the small table next to her chaise-longue. 

From some secret place under her chainmail, Leliana retrieves a thin blade, the keen edge catching the light from the candles. No doubt she has many such hidden places on her person, holding plenitudes of sharp things, ready to be used. Vivienne cannot blame her for such preparedness. After all, she herself is never unarmed, albeit with far more elegant a weapon.

Taking hold of the bottle, Leliana stabs the blade of her knife into the cork, extracting it with practiced finesse and pouring a generous amount into each glass. She wears thick leather gloves but they seem to be no impediment to her dexterity.

Vivienne seats herself on her chaise-longue, Leliana in the chair opposite, making space between them: a silent battlefield.

The wine is of impeccable taste, of course; Vivienne would have expected nothing less. Smooth and velvety, balanced perfectly between sweet and rich, a little smoky — perhaps worth being poisoned for. 

The evening is growing colder, the Main Hall cooling without the fireplace burning, but the wine makes her warm. 9:34 — the year of the Blight, a time that must hold many memories for the Spymaster.

Quiet as they are, the sound of the door to the Main Hall opening and closing is a loud, creaking noise. Then, from below, quiet footsteps and familiar voices, words spoken too low to be made out, except the parting salute:

_Goodnight, Cassandra._

_Sleep well, Inquisitor._

"Do you have nothing better to do, Madame de Fer," Leliana says, when the sound of footsteps have died out and the Main Hall is empty again, "than to meddle in other people's affairs?"

Meeting her gaze, Vivienne tilts her head, amusement tugging at her lips. "What sort of high tales do you think me party to today?"

"You have spun a web, as well as any spider would."

"I have, have I?"

"At first," Leliana says, tilting her head forward so that her eyes are hidden in the shadow of her hood, "I did not understand why you would involve yourself in something so trivial."

Studying her face with some care, Vivienne takes another sip from her wine. "Would you care to elucidate, darling? Your riddles grow wearisome."

"We are all simply pieces on your chess board, yes? If the Inquisitor does not realize, she has no one to blame but herself." Leliana finishes her glass of wine with one smooth sweep. " _Cassandra_... is a different matter."

Vivienne laughs lightly, leaning back on the chaise-longue. "Is that what this is about? I'm sure you know Cassandra is more than capable of taking care of herself."

"With the likes of you? I would not be so sure."

"She asked for my advice," Vivienne says, "and I gave it. Are you surprised she did not go to you first? I know you are friends of old. Perhaps if you ever left your birds and came down from your tower, she might have."

Standing, Leliana saunters to the table, refilling her glass — and Vivienne's, when she holds it out for her. The bottle is open and they might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

"Do you find them unsuitable for each other?" Vivienne asks. "Or do you disapprove on principle?"

Reaching out towards the vase next to the bottle of wine on the table, Leliana touches, ever so gently, her gloved fingertips to the pale pink flowers. Something so private yet so public. Positioned as she is, she looms over where Vivienne sits, no doubt by design.

"As I said," she murmurs, letting her hand fall, "I did not understand at first why you would waste your time with something so trivial, but it did not take much to find something hidden in plain sight."

"I see," Vivienne says, holding herself perfectly still where she sits. There would be no point in denial, nor to defend her choices, explain her reasons, or to confirm what Leliana already knows. Better to speak about it in circumlocution, rather than give the words space to exist in the open. "So what do you intend to do about it?"

Leliana walks back to her chair, sitting down, one leg slung over the other, giving a little shrug. "It's in the Maker's hands."

What that means is anyone's guess. It is always a special kind of enticement to brush up against another skillful player of the Game, especially when the stakes are so very high. "He so often receives help in these matters," Vivienne says.

Leliana makes an amused noise, lips twitching into a sneer. Leaning back as she is, her face is pale and tired in the candle light, no longer hidden by her hood. "I suppose you will attempt to eliminate your rivals, by any means," she says. "But you do not know Cassandra very well if you think she will prioritize her personal affections over duty — or what she perceives as such."

"I suppose that is the only reason you would see to why I'd involve myself in this."

"Do you expect me to believe you do not have ulterior motives?"

"My dear, there are always ulterior motives. You more than anyone ought to know that."

Leliana takes another long drink from her glass, gaze betraying her weariness. "Does it never sicken you?" she asks, voice matching the look in her eyes.

"It _invigorates_ me."

Leliana chuckles mirthlessly. "I used to feel the same."

"Don't look to me to absolve your crisis of faith," Vivienne says.

They are of an age, but their paths could not have been more different. Vivienne does not need to know the details of Leliana's past to recognize a lifelong player of the Game, and she knows only too well the hidden dangers and pitfalls that can ensnare even the very best. Losing sight of the reason one plays will make it all seem bleak and meaningless. There's nothing more dangerous than an idealist without her ideals.

Leliana holds her gaze, eyes burning with something Vivienne could not begin to try to identify. "You must want to go to bed," she says finally. "It is long past midnight."

"Sleep is for those with less to do."

Leliana narrows her eyes, as if she can read from between the lines of Vivienne's reply, fish some unsuspected truth hidden under her words. "Poor excuse," she says.

It's true, of course. It's been awhile since she slept easily, and perhaps it is easy enough to see — after all, she cannot claim to be busy when she's spent hours idling on her chaise-longue, enjoying a bottle of wine with someone who is maybe not an enemy, but definitely not an ally.

Perhaps it is the wine that makes her careless, or the exhaustion that long since settled heavy in her bones, since the last time she returned from Orlais, empty-handed, empty-hearted, empty of everything that mattered most. 

She's filled herself up since, with things that matter less but require more. There is never enough time for all that needs to be done, never enough time to dwell on things that will only pull her down and make her slow, certainly not enough time to sleep and let the Fade lure her in with all its unwanted imagery. Better then to embrace exhaustion, and sleep only when she can no longer cling to wakefulness, dreamlessly deep and void.

Leliana tilts her head, and Vivienne finds herself studied and scrutinized in a way she hasn't been for some time. What sorts of truths can she pluck out of her face, her posture, her eyes...? The idea of it is enticing: a dance with familiar steps.

"Good night, Vivienne," she says finally, getting to her feet, collecting both their glasses and the nearly empty bottle on her way out.

"Sleep well, Sister Nightingale," Vivienne says to her back, though she suspects that much like herself, sleep does not come easy to Leliana.

When Vivienne walks to her own rooms, ramparts bathed in moonlight, sky painted with an endless number of stars, there is still a light burning up in the rookery. 

Who knows where someone like the Spymaster sleeps, if indeed she does at all. 

* * *

The stars are only just starting to appear in dots and hazy smears, sky painted in violets and blues — demonstrating a clear lack of originality, Leliana joins her on the balcony once more, sliding out of the shadows as she did the night before.

The Inquisitor and the Seeker have made a habit of spending the evening hours in the courtyard, taking turns to spar in a manner too playful to yield result and dueling with a fierceness that speaks only far too plainly of unresolved matters. Cassandra has the superior technique, moving with skill like someone trained since childhood, while Cadash digs her heels in like a badger. They would not dare to come to her with their bruises.

Leaning on the railing, Leliana watches the two spar below, hood covering her profile. Vivienne does not need to see her face to sense her disapproval, but rather than comment, Leliana opens her gloved hand, where rests a small velvet bag, tied with silk ribbons.

"A tea to help you sleep," she says, placing the little bag on the railing between them; navy and white, like the evening sky. "Josie acquires it for me. I have not had the heart to tell her not to bother. Perhaps it might serve you better than me."

Eying the bag of tea with some suspicion, Vivienne finally takes it, recognizing the subtle scent of lavender. "Thank you," she says, "but a tea will not change my sleeping habits."

"Perhaps you are still concerned that I would attempt to poison you?" Leliana wonders. Straightening her back, she clasps her hands behind her back, leaning back on her heels, smirk positively insufferable. 

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Vivienne simply sighs. "I suppose you'll have to stay and share it with me, to prove your innocence. You do look dreadfully tired, darling."

It is quick work to warm up the kettle she keeps for this purpose, finding fire from the Fade and dragging it out in long strands, applying a steady, heated pressure until the water is just shy of boiling.

Leliana stands in the doorway from the balcony, studying her. Perhaps she finds the mundane application of magic curious. Perhaps she fears that Vivienne will slip poison in her tea rather than vice versa — as if she would need to use such methods. 

The scent of lavender is stronger now, filling the room indelibly. When Vivienne offers her a steaming cup, Leliana accepts it one-handed, holding it close to her chest as she gestures at the table. "Do you play?"

There's a stack of playing cards there, dwarven in style. The art is crude and the cards are worn, left behind from an earlier visit, perhaps in the vain hope that Vivienne would change her mind. 

"The Inquisitor," she says, "was under the mistaken impression that I wished to learn how to play her silly little card games."

"She can be persistent, " Leliana says, the tone of her voice conveying clearly that the Inquisitor's attempts to entice were not reserved for Vivienne alone.

"Quite."

"She reminds me of an old friend. Another dwarven criminal with a penchant for ending up at the center of things."

The cards move effortlessly in Leliana's hands, even with the padding of her gloves; she's a _Bard_ , and some things are simply second nature to all of her kind. Far from court, even a Bard turned Duke might remember, on occasion, how to shuffle a deck, how to cut, and how to play.

Leliana may have lived most of her life shrouded in shadows, but there's one thing everyone knows about the Left Hand of the Divine, one thing about her past she couldn't conceal even should she want to. "The Hero of Ferelden," Vivienne says, watching her keenly, "I assume?"

"Short. Pretty. A terrible card player. She taught me many games and lost every time."

"They say the Empress once had a man killed for insinuating she enjoyed a game of Chanson d'Argent in private. What could be more vulgar and crude to the court than card games?"

"Ah, yes." Leliana smiles — she must have spent enough time in Val Royeaux to know her words to be true. "I take it you do not play such vulgar games, then?"

"I'm a mage, darling, _of course_ I play." Pausing, she adds, "No need to inform the Inquisitor of such things."

"Nug-humper." 

"I beg your pardon?"

Leliana places a card on the table, face up; the Angel of Temerity, the face of a dwarven woman staring up at them with what could only be described as a cheeky look on her face. "Match or beat the card on the table," she says. "Play out your hand until you have no cards left. The loser is, well... I am sure you can guess, yes?"

"How delightful," Vivienne murmurs as Leliana lays out the cards in a familiar formation. Three cards face-down. Three cards face-up. Three for your hand. 

She's played this game before; a different name but the same rules. Is that not always how it goes? Taking a sip from her tea, the scent of lavender is strong but the taste holds notes of chamomile, lemon balm, passionflower.

"The game has no winner," Leliana says, "only one loser. Fitting, yes? You play the game until you lose. And if you do not lose, the reward you get is the _privilege_ of playing another game."

The bitterness in her voice is obvious, as if she thinks herself above such things. Only a fool would. "Do you think the Grand Cathedral operates any differently?" Vivienne wonders, perhaps a little sharply.

"I know it does not."

"Yet you still seek it?"

Leliana smiles, eyes glittering, utterly unreadable. 

"Good night, Vivienne," she says when she leaves, when the night is past its darkest, most suffocating hours. At that point they have both lost enough times that counting has turned pointless, and she is too tired besides.

* * *

Leliana returns some days later for another cup of tea. The Inquisitor leaves Skyhold, putting an end to her and Cassandra's late night sparring sessions, and the deck of cards gets much use.

Why not?

All the pieces are in place and it is time, now, to bide her time — and oh, how long it took her to learn how to wait, when she was still young and restless. Some of that impatience still lingers, deep in her bones, where she'll never quite shake it. But then there's nothing better than seeing the pieces of the puzzle fall into place before her, worth every moment of frustration and restlessness tenfold.

Spring has only just grasped a firmer hold of the mountains, nights growing shorter, yet time seems to be at a standstill. Corypheus has made no move, and the Inquisition's influence is growing, slowly, carefully, like a well-maintained garden.

"I'm afraid that was the last of your tea," she says, watching Leliana's fingers tap on her cards. 

"A pity. I enjoy the flavor. Has it improved your sleep?"

"Not in the slightest."

Leliana smirks, lopsided. "Same."

They play until the cards blur in her hands, her tired eyes falling closed, and she can no longer recall whose turns it is, as the sky lightens with the coming of dawn. 

Squinting out the windows towards the ramparts, Vivienne sighs. "How foolish. We should have at least made an attempt at sleep."

"The best I ever slept was during the Blight," Leliana says, voice raw and wavering. "We were racing against time, had no reason to think we'd succeed, only foolish hope and luck we never earned on our side. But I slept like a lamb."

She leans back in her chair, stretching tiredly, the light of dawn painting her face in warm colors. "Natia loved the sunrise," she continues. "She had never been on the surface until the Blight, and she was more impressed by that than any magic."

Something around her mouth softens a little, something Vivienne had not thought of as tense before, but rather — steady, still. Perhaps it is true delirium from her lack of sleep setting in that she finds her quite appealing like this: gritty eyed and drained, freckles stark against her skin. 

Her accent, the way she moves, the look in her eyes all conspire to make her think of a different place. She's a little piece of Orlais: deception, temptation, wit and challenge; homesickness soothed and made worse all at once. 

"I've never slept well alone..." Vivienne says, drifting into a silence that articulates well enough what she doesn't say.

Leliana smirks: knowing, exhausted, amused. "That is an easy thing to settle."

"Easier than waiting for another Blight, I suppose."

"I can ask Josie for more of her tea, if you wish. Unless there is something else you would like...?"

Coquettishly lowering her eyelids, her fingers twitch, splayed wide over the cards in her hands. Little breadcrumbs to follow, if one is so inclined. Vivienne feels it all the way down her spine, fatigue making it easy to linger on the thought of fingertips against skin. It is late, too late to be coy — so late, in fact, it is morning.

From the Great Hall below, there is the quiet noise of doors opening and closing, the subtle sound of footsteps. The day begins, sleep or no sleep. Time waits for no one. 

"There are better ways yet," Vivienne says, "to combat a lack of sleep than tea."

* * *

The Inquisitor returns in the late afternoon from her weeks in the Hissing Wastes, good-tempered, wind-swept and smelling rather potently of leather and horse. 

Months earlier, Vivienne accompanied her to an earlier mission to the Hissing Wastes, finding it less than pleasant. Nothing but vast emptiness, sand slipping under her feet, lonely winds tugging on her robes. The extremes forced them find shelter during the day and travel at night. The desolate darkness did not lend itself to a pleasant journey, leaving too much room for thoughts of a maudlin nature. 

The Inquisitor, however, seems to have suffered none of that, and immediately sets out to plan the next journey. Even before taking the time to have a bath, tragically.

"Come with me to Emprise du Lion," she asks of Vivienne, "it'll be great. You, me, some other idiots, lots of Orlesian snow...?"

Hesitating only briefly, Vivienne shakes her head. "I'm rather busy at the moment. Next time, perhaps. Besides, I'm sure Lord Pavus would find the snow delightful, I wouldn't want to deprive the poor man."

"Have you met him?"

"And do bring Cassandra this time, she's ever so moody when you leave her behind."

Cadash blushes like the sunrise, ever expressive. Orlais would grind her into a pulp if the Inquisition was not ever at her back. 

"Maker, Vivienne, please try to have a little fun sometimes! You know what'll kill you faster than a sword? _Boredom_."

"Darling," she says, "I'll do my very best."

With that in mind, she finishes her letter-writing for the day, shares an evening meal with Josephine, and takes a long bath. When Leliana finally deigns to descend from her rookery, she greets her wearing only a gray silk robe with gold brocade. There's no reason to stand on ceremony.

It is late, later than the usual time Leliana has taken to join her on her balcony. Perhaps she hesitated to come here, to Vivienne's private room, where she rarely receives visitors. She still wears her ever present armor — chainmail, hood, gloves, an expression of silent judgment — as if she cannot fathom an existence without them. 

They are on new ground now, and such things are always precarious, requiring a delicate touch. 

Leliana faces her, stranding straight and only a little shorter than Vivienne, though Vivienne's feet are bare and Leliana wears boots that look sturdy and tough.

"Would you like me to sing you a lullaby, Vivienne?" she asks, voice low. "Lull you to sleep with a story?"

"Do not pretend to be shy, it doesn't suit you."

Leliana purses her lips, eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks as her gaze shifts from Vivienne's eyes, to her lips, and lower, where her robe has fallen open a little.

"Then tell me... how would you like me to put you to sleep?"

Vivienne does wish she would stop speaking. 

That she could ask for what she wants rather than having to approach it from the sides, tip-toeing in circles, making it a negotiation. Perhaps if she wasn't so tired, she'd have the patience for it. There are only words between them; they have not had years to develop a language of looks and postures, of bodies expressing plainly everything that needs to be said. The loss of that seems unbearable sometimes.

"You are overdressed," she says.

Leliana gives her a one-sided smirk as she stands to remove her clunky boots and armor, hood, undoing buckle after buckle, shedding her armor without hesitation. She drops her chainmail on the floor, the sound loud in the quiet. She keeps her undershirt on. Fine quality linen, but simple and sturdy. No doubt she considers it fitting to deprive herself of something soft and silky against her skin.

Indicating the bed with a nod and an eyebrow raised in expectation, Vivienne watches as Leliana obeys, for once, without comment. Joining her on the bed, Vivienne guides her back against the pillows, straddling her waist. 

Putting a hand on her shoulder, she presses her back, and Leliana follows easily, hands finding her waist, fingers finding the belt to her robe. The look on her face, sultry and confident, is too studied to be anything but a mask. Vivienne wonders how many people Leliana has killed wearing that very same expression.

There is something hard and heavy at the bottom edge of her shirt, pressing against her knee; no doubt a blade sewn into the lining. 

A dangerous woman to keep around. One not to turn one's back to.

Tracing her fingers over the lining of her shirt, finding the contour of a long blade, hidden and ready. "You came armed, I see."

"I have never trusted you," Leliana says, eyes hooded, and when Vivienne moves her hand to her cheek, to her mouth, she makes a little noise at the back of her throat.

The words calm Vivienne’s racing heartbeat. There's always comfort in knowing what sort of game's afoot, of finding familiar ground to navigate. It seems sometimes dangerously complex to trust someone solely on the basis that they claim to be a friend.

"Good," she says.

Her knee bends, leg coming up, bodies fitting together like a puzzle. Pulling her robe up so that she is bare against Leliana's leg, she leans forward, pressing herself tighter against her thigh. 

Leliana undoes the belt to her robe, unwrapping her lazily, as if she's in no rush at all.

Vivienne does not share her patience. 

It's more than she expected, bare and honest, making her feel more vulnerable than she'd care for. Leliana strokes her thumbs under her breasts, fingertips brushing against her sides, where she, in her youth, painstakingly taught herself to not be ticklish. The last person to touch her so intimately was Bastien, and the idea of someone else putting their hands on her body is as enticing as it is daunting. 

She kisses her, openly and fully, slowly, wetly.

Leliana kisses her back like she's starving.

It is an easy game to play. Leliana touches her with the skill and confidence of someone who has made love to other women before, someone who might make an educated guess what she'd enjoy and also someone who knows how to read every shift and twitch, figuring out the subtle push and pull of pleasure and desire.

" _More_ ," Vivienne commands, more than once, and Leliana is always happy to oblige. 

Breathing hard, she finds herself wound so tightly she nearly trembles at the way she touches her, the way her fingers move inside of her, her mouth on her neck, her jaw, her mouth, and Leliana is unrelenting, until she is quite overcome. 

"I'm not asleep yet," Vivienne says, when they've both had their fill and Leliana rolls away.

Leliana touches her jaw softly, the tips of her fingers, kissing her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her lips. How very disarming she is like this, with the flush on her cheeks descending all the way down to her breasts. With such obvious tells, it is no wonder she's had to develop other skills.

Extinguishing the lights with a snap of her fingers, only the light from the window remains, where the moon is nearly full. Vivienne moves to her side, and Leliana settles behind her. Though she doesn't touch her, the room is filled with the warmth, the presence, the steady breathing of another.

And when she is all full of it, of listening to her breath, body still humming with pleasure and that sated feeling of time well spent, she drifts off to sleep and she sleeps deeply, thoroughly, dreamlessly, until morning.

* * *

Cassandra joins her for breakfast, for which Vivienne has procured fresh strawberries and sweet crêpes with whipped cream, honey and cinnamon. Cassandra, who, despite her practicality and stark denial of the sort of comforts most people prefer to not do without, has quite the sweet-tooth. 

She is quiet today, letting Vivienne's small-talk wash over her with few comments. It's a warm morning, and Vivienne has brought out chairs to her balcony so they can sit in the sun, enjoying the start of perhaps one of the first summer days.

"You seem well, Vivienne," Cassandra says when Vivienne leans back on her chair to enjoy the sunshine on her face.

The morning air is crisp and invigorating: the little chill that brings out goosebumps, and the warm light from the sun that soothes them. A good night's sleep goes a long way.

"I am well," she replies. "You, however, seem quite pensive this morning. Does it have anything to do with the Inquisitor departing this morning, _unfathomably_ early for a woman of her persuasion?"

The look Cassandra gives her is stricken, as if she thinks it requires any skill at all to see what sort of affliction plaguing her. "She must understand that some things are not to be."

"Ah."

Looking utterly miserable, Cassandra sighs. "How long were you with — the Duke?" Hastily, she adds, "I am being rude."

"It's no secret. Twenty years, and some."

"When did you know?"

The question is painfully earnest, and equally impossible to answer. "That is a very intimate question, my dear," she says.

"You are right. I apologize."

Vivienne fills up her cup of tea, adding a little extra honey. "Have some more strawberries, Cassandra, they won't last."

"You told me before to keep my heart open."

"Did I?"

"Is it worth it?"

It is not, of course. The answer to such a question could only ever be _no_.

Cassandra is delightful, her consternation as lovely as it is painful. How could Vivienne explain that she loved many over the years, and every one of them was taken from her, in one way or another. How could anything possibly be worth it?

Drinking slowly from her tea, Vivienne gathers herself. "Do not let the good things slip through your fingers."

When breakfast is finished and Cassandra has slunk away to lick her wounds and sharpen her sword in private, Vivienne walks through the library and up the stairs to the rookery.

She's never made the trip before, and it's about as abysmal as she expected. Dark, dreary and drafty, the creaking from the walls and the whistling sound of the wind make it altogether only too fitting for someone of the Spymaster's disposition.

"How... cozy," she remarks, as Leliana looks up from her desk.

The look of surprise on her face is definitely worth the trip. It's only a few hours since she left her bed, slinking out before the light of dawn could take hold. Leliana lowers her hood, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips, as her eyes dip down. Vivienne should have known her to be the sort of person who'd be smug. 

"Vivienne," she says slowly, the way her mouth moves around her name intimate, suggestive. "Did you sleep well?"

The memory of her mouth makes it all seem somewhat illicit, though this is hardly the place to entertain such thoughts. The chainmail effectively keeps her lines hidden, but Vivienne flatters herself to be thorough where it counts; she's already committed to memory the topography of her body.

Of course, the fact that they're being keenly observed by half a dozen birds makes it feel rather less intimate.

"Tolerably," she replies. "And you?"

"I... slept." 

One of Leliana's agents — the sharp one — comes up from the stairs on silent feet, moving quickly into the periphery, no doubt trained to make herself unobtrusive. Glancing in her direction, Leliana straightens her back, face smoothing out into an unreadable, calm mask.

"Is there something I can help you with, Madame de Fer?"

"Strawberries, darling. We all know you cannot abide sunlight, but if you find it in yourself to make an exception, you're welcome to my balcony. Adan grows them in the garden, but they won't last."

Leliana looks to the side, out the small window that barely allows the light from the sun to enter, expression softening for a moment into something quite wistful. "Then I suppose we’d best enjoy them while we can."


End file.
